Brittany Geragotelis - Life's a Witch

It was the day Bridget Bishop was sentenced to die and all she could think about was how she would never get the chance to see her daughter marry. She had had three husbands herself. With each marriage she’d learned something different about love and life, and had intended to share these lessons with her only daughter, Christian, so she might save her from some of the mistakes she herself had made.

For instance, make sure your husband-to-be has a strong heart, so people cannot accuse you of bewitching him if he suffers an untimely death , she thought with a sigh.

Then again, maybe the first lesson she should have taught Christian was how to go unnoticed. After all, wasn’t it the fact that Bridget was considered a wanton woman that had landed her in the dank basement of the local jail, where she was now shackled? Her friends had warned her about wearing red. That the color seemed to elicit a reaction in the men of Salem Town and, of course, annoy the women whose men drooled after her. Not that she was the only one who donned the attention-drawing color—albeit none of the others also owned taverns. Several taverns actually, which in the 1600s was somewhat unseemly for a God-fearing woman. Men were usually the ones who controlled the flow of ale, and some thought it distasteful for a woman to be around so many inebriated men.

The thought of work made Bridget begin to fret over what was surely happening without her watchful eye on things. No doubt her barmaids were refilling steins for free and allowing the men to gamble. The places were probably in ruins without her. And likely, not nearly as fun.

But she supposed that soon, all of that would no longer be a concern. In the nearly two months since she’d been arrested on suspicions of witchcraft, time had ceased to exist for her. She never knew what hour it was, her cell had no windows and the criminals were all kept separate. But, given the steady flow of visitors she’d had over the past day, she knew that her time must surely be running out.

At least, that’s what she’d gathered that morning when the reverend had read Bridget her last rites and asked if she had any confessions before meeting her maker. Bridget’s answer had been the same as it had always been: that she’d never done anything in her life to harm another living thing. She’d barely been able to contain her anger as the man of God sighed and shook his head in disbelief before once again leaving her alone in her cell.

She still had no idea how the situation had gotten so out of control.

Before her mind could once again recollect the sequence of events that had brought about the trials, she heard a shuffling of feet and then the sound of a man clearing his throat from just outside the bars of her cell. Although it was rather dark in the room, she knew who her visitor was without seeing him.

“Reverend Samuel Parris,” Bridget said evenly. “What brings thou here? I already had my meeting with the church today… .”

“You know that is not why I am here, Bridget,” Reverend Parris said, walking toward her, the lantern in his hands casting an eerie glow across the cold stony space. He moved forward until his face was just inches away from the bars.

“Come to break me out then, have you?” she asked sarcastically, then snorted.

The reverend didn’t answer, but instead looked around the room uncomfortably.

“Oh, come now, Samuel, I know there is aught you can do,” Bridget said, her tone turning sad. She looked down at the chains that bound her hands, tugging at them halfheartedly. “I have been trying to get out of these confounded things since they brought me here, but it looks like it will take some serious magic to free me.”

It was a rueful pun, but Reverend Parris remained stone-faced. Bridget rolled her eyes and sighed. She had long since accepted her fate.

“’Tis but a folly,” she said, trying to catch her friend’s eye. When she finally did, he gave her a small smile in return. “How did we get here, Samuel? How did things become such a mess?” She hesitated before asking her next question. It had been weighing on her mind since the whole thing had begun, and she could no longer hold it in. “Samuel, why did they accuse Sarah and Tituba of being witches? How could they have done that knowing… knowing what they know?”

“Children will be children, I suppose,” he said softly, as if it were a suitable excuse for all that had happened.

“But they’re your children, Samuel. At least Betty is. And Abigail, your niece,” she said. “And they are part of us! Why would they publicly accuse those in their own coven of casting spells on them? They had to have known that it would create this kind of hysteria.”

“I suppose they did.”

The reverend slowly bent down until he was eye level with Bridget, placing his right hand on one of the bars for support. At first she thought he might be feeling faint, but another glance revealed something else shining in his eyes. Surely she was seeing things, because she could have sworn there was the tiniest hint of hatred there.

“Oh, Bridget,” he said slowly. “Don’t look so surprised. I would have thought thou would have figured it all out by now, given your extraordinary ability to perceive the future. But perhaps you are not as powerful as you would have us think?”

Bridget felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The truth of what Samuel said hit her harder than even the initial accusation of witchcraft. But she was a proud woman and the last thing she’d do is let anyone see her weaknesses. Let alone her enemy.

“Well, you know better than anyone that what we do isn’t exact,” Bridget said with a shrug, even though she felt like lashing out at him. “So, why then, Samuel? Why turn your back on your own kind? Your coven? Was it because the Cleri would not elect you its leader?”

The Cleri was Salem’s secret troupe of witches—well, they had been a secret until recently at least—and the biggest coven in Massachusetts. When Bridget uttered their name, Samuel let out a laugh, low at first and then hearty as it moved through his body. The sound was unlike anything Bridget had ever heard, and for the first time in the thirty years she’d known the reverend, she realized she never really knew him at all. What was worse, since he was a member of the Cleri himself, she’d taught him many of her secrets over the years. Some of which, if in the wrong hands, would prove to be dangerous to everyone around them.

“All you had to do was vote me in,” he spat. “No one would have done a better job of leading and shaping the Cleri than I. We could have been the most powerful coven in New England. Possibly even the world. But every time I raised one of my ideas, you overruled me. You treated me as insignificant. As if you cared nothing for me or my plans.”

Bridget kept her mouth shut, but her mind was racing, trying desperately to think of a way out of her current predicament. Testing the chains’ strength again, she whispered, “Oxum expedis,” and put all her energy into trying to free her hands. But a slight tug later, she realized she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Ah, yes,” Samuel said smugly. “You have no doubt noticed that the chains are difficult—nay, impossible—to break. I suppose I am not as impaired in my spell casting as you may have assumed.”

Bridget couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The man she’d trusted day in and day out was now saying that she was a prisoner because of him. That he was jealous of her power and wanted to run the Cleri. And that was why she would die today.